


Show Me

by callay



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Neediness, Possessiveness, Public Masturbation, Smut, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:06:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/pseuds/callay
Summary: “Tell me,” continues Graves, his voice even lower now. “Does this always happen when I heal you?”“Always. When you – when you touch me.”Graves takes a breath. Credence can hear it; Graves has drawn even closer, not so close that they touch but close enough that Credence can feel every scant inch of space between them. His voice is a low murmur. “And what do you do, Credence, when this happens to you?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Show Me 展示](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9193766) by [jls20011425](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jls20011425/pseuds/jls20011425)



> So, this started as just a PWP, and ended up as... a weird PWP. Story of my life.

Graves touches him, and under his fingers, Credence’s palms turn smooth and pink, all brand new skin, untouched by lash or labor. Graves’ magic feels cool, a soft tingling just this side of an itch, and Credence shivers. He imagines the feeling spreading from his hands through his veins, up through his entire body, chasing all his other pains away. But then after the cool, imaginary sweep of magic, something else surges up to take its place, shame and love and desire like a knot of heat in his stomach.

“There,” murmurs Graves, taking up both of Credence’s hands and stepping back to admire his work. “That should be better.”

“Yes,” answers Credence, eyes on the ground, swaying a little as his heart jumps between two desires: one, to turn away, hide how much he wants this; the other, to stay like this forever with Graves’ thumbs pressed just like that into the flesh of his palms.

Instead Graves holds him by one hand and moves the other, reaching up to adjust Credence’s collar, straighten his jacket. Credence doesn’t look up, but he can still feel Graves’ eyes traveling over him, from his collar down his chest, then lower – and with a rush of fear Credence tries to turn away, but it’s too late.

He can hear the tiny catch of breath as Graves notices. Credence is hard in his threadbare pants, painfully, shamefully hard, just from the touch of Graves’ hands and Graves’ magic.

Frantic, Credence twists away, trying to pull out of Graves’ grip, but Graves’ hand fastens tight around his wrist and he holds him there, and reaches out and grabs Credence by the collar to yank him closer. As soon as Credence stops trying to pull away, the fierce grip on his collar softens and Graves slides his hand around to the back of Credence’s neck instead.

When he speaks, his words are slow, his tone neutral. “Is that because of me, Credence?” 

Credence shudders, torn between accepting the comfort of Graves’ touch and pulling away from it, a further source of shame, sending a treacherous rush of heat down his spine to pool in his stomach. For a moment he can only swallow, his eyes stinging, and then Graves’ hands tighten on him and he’s forced to choke out, “Yes, Mr. Graves, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to –“

“Shh.” Graves’ thumb strokes the base of Credence’s skull. “You don’t have to apologize. I want to help you. You’re helping me, aren’t you?”

Credence nods, even though he’s not sure Graves is helping him at all, the way his touch makes Credence ache for things he can barely name, the tingle of his magic that Credence can feel for hours afterwards, the mere brush of Graves’ fingers hardening Credence’s cock.

“Tell me,” continues Graves, his voice even lower now. “Does this always happen when I heal you?”

“Always. When you – when you touch me.”

Graves takes a breath. Credence can hear it; Graves has drawn even closer, not so close that they touch but close enough that Credence can feel every scant inch of space between them. His voice is a low murmur. “And what do you do, Credence, when this happens to you?”

“What do I -?”

Graves continues, steady: “Do you touch yourself?”

Credence closes his eyes and nods.

Graves’ fingers are tight around his wrist still, so tight it hurts for a moment, and then, abruptly, as if making a decision, Graves lets him go and steps away from him.

Credence shudders, shame pounding through his veins, burning his face. He doesn’t open his eyes. He wants to apologize, to take it back, to make himself someone different, someone Graves could respect, but he can only try to make excuses. “L-later, though. At night. I don’t –”

“Show me.”

Credence falls silent. He doesn’t have to ask what Graves wants to see. Graves made it obvious in the space of two syllables, in the low, steely tone of his voice. When he tells Credence to do things in that tone, Credence thinks he would die to do them, if he had to.

There’s magic that does that, Graves had told him once, a curse that could bend anyone’s will to his. “But I’ll never use it on you,” he’d said, thumb at the corner of Credence’s jaw. “Because you want to help me. I want us to cooperate, Credence.” And Credence had nodded and told him, “I want to cooperate, Mr. Graves.”

Credence goes to his knees.

He always does this kneeling, in the hidden spot he found in the corner of the chapel, where if anyone discovered him in the dead of night, he might look like he was praying. It’s different here in the alley, cold and exposed, and it’s different too that he has to remove his belt instead of just pulling down his ratty old pajama pants – but Graves is watching him, so he does it, even though his hands shake on his belt buckle. He opens his pants, too, clumsily, his body jolting every time his fingers meet the shape of his cock, and then he hesitates.

“Show me,” says Graves again, and Credence nods jerkily and pushes down his underpants and pulls his cock out.

His eyes are on the ground in front of him, but he doesn’t have to look up to feel Graves’ eyes on him, on his bare cock, taking him in. There’s a slick thrill of power in this, like lying to his mother, like once when Graves let him touch his wand – something fascinating because it’s utterly forbidden. But the fear is so much greater, the fear that Graves will turn away in disgust, fear that the bone-deep ache of need inside Credence will never be satisfied.

As he kneels there, exposed, the moment stretches out. Credence wishes Graves would do something – tell him what to do, maybe, or just reach out and touch him. He wishes desperately for that, for Graves’ hand on his head, anchoring him, giving him comfort and security against this maelstrom of fear and need.

But Graves doesn’t touch him. All Graves does it watch him, and wait, until finally Credence closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath and touches himself.

A shiver runs through him at the first touch, the friction of skin on skin, strange and new since Graves healed his hand. He remembers the slide of Graves’ fingers against his palm and it makes him shudder, and tighten his grip, and stroke up the length of his cock in one desperate movement.

“That’s it,” murmurs Graves, so low that Credence wonders if it was just a trick of his heartbeat pounding in his ears, but it feels good anyway, a little shiver of happiness through the hot, twisted core of him. He keeps going, finding a rhythm, short desperate jerks that tighten up under the head of his cock, just like he does it alone at night. His pulse is pounding, his breath coming out of him in tiny little moans as pleasure starts to gather low in his stomach.

Usually it’s quick, something frantic and desperate that he can get over with and sneak back to bed. But it’s more difficult now. His blood runs hot and then cold, each flush of arousal chased by a jolt of shame and discomfort, making his skin tingle and his stomach twist. He can’t focus. Usually when he does this, he can lose himself for a moment in the physical pleasure of it, but now his attention is drawn to Graves like to a magnet. He can feel Graves watching him, he can hear his measured breaths, and he can’t stop picturing himself through Graves’ eyes – hunched over, desperate, with his hand working his cock –

“Credence,” says Graves, and Credence twitches at the sound of his name. “Go slowly. I want to see.”

Graves’ words shiver down Credence’s spine, and, swallowing hard, he slows the rhythm of his hand. Every stroke now feels sinful, self-indulgent. It makes it all worse, gives him time on each stroke to feel the full range of embarrassment and guilt and then pleasure, like he’s a bowl being filled to the brim and then drained again, over and over.

But Graves makes a satisfied sound above him. “That’s it,” he breathes, taking Credence in. “Look at you.”

And Credence find himself looking down. It’s a shock to see his cock pushing through his fist, nosing up into the air, hard and flushed dark in his pale hand. He feels for a second that it doesn’t belong to him, that something so raw and erotic and alive could never be his.

And then he squeezes it and feels his own body shiver with pleasure and his own blood pulse under his hand, the same blood that bruises his skin, that flushes his cheeks.

The realization makes him feel vulnerable and exposed, like he could have just opened his ribs and shown Graves his heart instead, and he doesn’t know what to do so he closes his eyes and chokes out, “Mr. Graves –”

“You’re doing well, Credence,” Graves tells him, low. “Keep going. I want you to show me everything.”

Credence bites down on his tongue but a noise escapes anyway, half a sob, as he goes slower still, dragging his hand up and then back down his cock, inch by inch. It makes him want to squirm, to push his hips up to meet his fist, anything to match the frantic pulse of need thrumming through his veins, but he holds still instead. Perfectly still, except for shudder of his chest on each breath and the desperately slow movement of his arm, because that’s what Graves wants.

Graves watches him for a long moment before speaking again. “Tell me, when you do this – do you think about me?”

And Credence –

What Credence thinks about, at night, is touching Graves’ magical necklace. Touching it while he’s right there in his corner of the chapel, with his pajama pants around his thighs, touching it so that Graves will come to him and see him like that, bare, his hand on his cock, stripped down to pure need –

And in the fantasy Graves will see him bare and see right through to his heart and understand everything, and kneel next to him on the floor and gather him close, and kiss him, and bring Credence off with his own hand, whispering into his ear –

This, now, in the cold alleyway, is so close to what Credence always imagines, with Credence on the ground, exposed, helpless under Graves’ gaze.

But the key part of the fantasy is what happens next. Graves seeing him, and understanding him, and taking him into his arms. The ache of need that seizes Credence is so violent he can barely breathe. He needs it to be like he imagined, he needs it to be, or else what is he doing –

He gasps out a sob. “Please, Mr. Graves, please –”

“What is it?”

“Touch me –”

There’s a heartbeat where Credence kneels there, shaking, and then Graves steps forward. Credence, head down, sees his shoes stop neatly close to Credence’s knees. 

“Whatever you need,” says Graves, in a voice low enough to promise Credence everything.

His hand pushes into Credence’s hair, and Credence whimpers. Graves’ hand skates over his scalp and each touch blooms like a flower of warmth, spreading over his skin, sliding tendrils down his spine. He strokes himself quickly now, desperately, but even the pulse of pleasure in his cock is secondary to Graves’ touch.

Credence is curled in on himself, hunched over. When Graves’ hand reaches the back of his head he takes a fistful of hair and gently pulls Credence’s head up, tilting it back, so Credence’s face is turned up towards him. Credence, gasping, follows his touch, sitting up on his knees and arching his back into the touch. He doesn’t dare open his eyes but he can feel the heat of Graves’ gaze on his face anyway.

And then both of Graves’ hands are on him, cupping his face, fingers curling gently around his skull, thumbs on his cheeks. Credence whimpers. He loves this, the feeling of being held. Surrounded. Like there’s nothing in his world beyond Graves.

“Look at you,” murmurs Graves. He touches Credence slowly, tracing the shape of his face. He brushes away the tears that have fallen from Credence’s lashes, pushes his hair back from his forehead, thumbs at his bitten bottom lip. Credence shivers at each touch, feeling dazed, still stroking himself with an unsteady hand.

Finally, Graves asks in a quiet voice, “Credence, can you open your eyes?”

When Credence does, he’s looking directly into Graves’. There’s a heat to them that stops Credence’s breath in his throat. Usually Graves’ eyes are dark and searching, like he’s looking for something in Credence and not finding it. Usually Credence avoids them. But now he’s pinned, Graves’ hands holding him still and Graves’ eyes peering into his, deep with an intensity Credence can’t name.

“You’re mine, aren’t you, Credence?”

Credence can only moan in response. He’s trembling, his hand moving in an uneven rhythm on his cock. His whole body feels feverish and overwhelmed, like a dam has broken, and all the desire built up over their secret meetings – all the touches to the back of Credence’s neck, all the words about Credence being special – all of it is sweeping him under.

“Say you’re mine,” says Graves, his voice fiercer than before, low and raw.

“I’m – I’m yours,” says Credence, feeling it in the desperate ache of his cock, in every inch of his skin burning with heat, in the every beat of his painful heart.

Graves presses closer until Credence can feel the heat of his body, until he can smell the sharp, old-fashioned smell of him. Still Credence kneels there as if in worship, face caught in Graves’ hands. Graves’ eyes slide down Credence’s body, to his flushed cock, the frantic motion of his hand, the uneven heave of his chest, and then snap back to his face. “My Credence,” he says, with something warm in his voice, pleasure or maybe triumph. “Let me see you fall apart.”

Credence lets out a wordless sob. He’s close to falling apart, so close, his whole body taut with the nearness of it. This was what he imagined, wasn’t it? To belong to Graves, to show Graves everything. He reaches out and clutches at Graves’ coat, desperate. Every part of him is aching for release and yet he’s frozen, tense, helpless –

“All right,” says Graves quietly, “Come on.” And he sinks to his knees and pulls Credence in, holds Credence’s head against his shoulder. Credence noses in to his neck, shuddering. Graves holds him there for a heartbeat, and then says it into Credence’s ear, low: “Show me, Credence.”

Credence comes, crying out against Graves’ neck, pleasure sweeping through him like a flood, washing away everything. It pulses through him like his very blood, like a vibration of his soul, and then out of him, spilling through his fingers onto the stone.

And then he kneels there, gasping, drained, Graves’ hand heavy on the back of his neck.

After a moment Graves shifts, rising to his feet, his hand sliding away from Credence. Credence leans after it but he’s not sure he can get up yet. Instead, he carefully fixes his pants and refastens his belt, blinking the wetness from his eyes.

When he struggles to his feet, Graves offers him a hand and then immediately pulls him in close. “Thank you for that,” he says quietly. “I wanted to see you. To know how you feel about me. I want us to understand each other, Credence.”

Something bitter twists in Credence’s stomach. His knees hurt and the last traces of pleasure are quickly being edged out by a heavy ball of shame and guilt in his stomach. He wants to think Graves understands him, but he knows in his dark, secret heart that’s impossible.

But Graves is trying to catch his eye, waiting for an answer, so Credence stutters out, “Yes, Mr. Graves.”

Graves strokes the back of Credence’s neck, pleased, his fingers brushing through Credence’s hair, and Credence finds if he closes his eyes he can still pretend, for just a moment, that there’s nothing in the world but Graves’ touch.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [calllay](http://calllay.tumblr.com/post/153757893474/show-me-callay-fantastic-beasts-and-where-to) on Tumblr!


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